Saturday Evening

Below there’s a brumming and strumming And twiddling and fiddling amain, And sweeping of muslins and laughter, And pattering of luminous rain.

Fair England, resplendent Columbia, Gaul, Teuton,--how precious a smother! But the happiest is brisk little Polly To galop with only her brother.

And up to the fourth étage landing, Come the violins’ passionate cries, Where the pale femme-de-chambre is sitting With sleep in her beautiful eyes.